The Ziegler Follies
by Anna-Salem
Summary: Bakery owner Manfred Ziegler and his daughter Tilda are Viennese conspirators against the Anschluss. But it seems the one man in Austria who could ruin the Ziegler's plans has developed a taste for their baked goods, and for Tilda.  N/C  Thanks reviewers!
1. Chapter 1

It was a golden spring evening in Vienna, and though the air no longer held the chill of winter, Tilda shuddered. She silently observed the motorcade as it engulfed the city streets, car after rumbling car. Uniformed soldiers spilled into Vienna, emblazoned with the searing red crest of the Reich. Austrian men and women lined the sidewalks, greeting their newfound jailors. And God help her, they were _applauding_.

From her vantage point on the terrace of her father's shop far removed from the crowd, she watched as the Heldenplatz filled with those she had thought were her fellow citizens. People she recognized, the Arzt family and the Engels, the Jaeger twins and old Frau Gottelieb, all passed her with smiles on their faces to collect in the throng, waiting to hear the words of their beloved conqueror.

"How could they," she turned to her father, large brown eyes shining with tears she could not allow to fall.

"Because, my dearest Mathilda," Manfred Ziegler pulled small, wire-framed glasses from his face and wiped them on his flour-crusted apron, "They are fools."

The man himself appeared at the behest of the cheering crowd. He was a small, pale man; almost frail looking had anyone asked her opinion. Yet he spoke with a fury and conviction that could almost excuse the behavior of her peers. Almost.

He spoke of change. He spoke of liberation. And he addressed them all as his fellow Germans. She shook her head and ducked away into her father's shop to wait until nightfall; she couldn't bear to hear any more.

Long after Hitler's small body disappeared back into his lavish hotel room, Tilda ventured into the street to clean up the mess left on her father's doorstep by the crowds on their way to the square. With a broom and a dustpan, she did her best to clean away the rubbish: recruiting pamphlets, tiny dyed papers used as confetti, even the remains of banners welcoming the German Army into their beautiful city. She would burn it all.

Tilda was painfully aware of the soldiers as they marched up and down the streets, but she pretended to ignore them. They hung in doorways, smoking cigarettes and chatting up tavern patrons, or patrolling the already safe alleys and streets that led to the Heldenplatz. No matter how long they stayed or how well they ingratiated themselves to the citizens of Vienna, she would never get used to them.

One paper had the grotesque caricature of well-known Jewish businessman, and family friend, Herr von Herzheim. While it was true that the man possessed a rather bulbous nose, the image portrayed him with a nose so large that it might cause any ordinary person to pitch forward with its weight. Beady eyes and greasy curls completed the hideous cartoon. She wrinkled her own small nose and bent down to dispose of the offending picture.

Just as she took a corner of the paper between her fingertips, a shiny black boot obscured her vision. Tilda swallowed thickly; she did not care to look up.

"Allow me," a soft Austrian voice offered. Closing her eyes, she straightened and backed away from the soldier, nearly tripping over the curb. "Ah," the man paused, as though appreciating the artwork, "Delightful."

Her belly was doing flip-flops. She was so very close to the front door of the shop. She could excuse herself, turn, and be inside before the soldier could say another word.

"I believe this was your drawing, Fraulein?"

With a deep breath she opened her eyes. A man in an S.S. uniform offered the picture to her with a warm smile. She did not particularly care to acknowledge ranks among the soldiers, but this particular man was obviously of very high rank. Medals lined his jacket; patches and pins covered his chest and arms. He stood very straight, patiently waiting for her to reach out and take the picture, his head tilted slightly to the side.

"Not mine," she said calmly, taking the proffered paper, "But thank you, Herr…"

The man cocked one blonde eyebrow, "_Standartenführer_Hans Landa," he extended a black-gloved hand, "At your service."

She regarded him warily, before reaching out to shake. He snatched up her hand and placed a quick kiss upon it. Tilda, despite her best efforts, felt her face flushing.

"Pardon me," she managed, "but I should be getting home."

The Colonel regarded her quietly for a moment, "It is early yet. Let me help you," he took the broom and dustpan from her hands, inspecting the contents, "Doing a bit of housekeeping?"

She nodded, not wishing to reveal any more information than necessary.

"I was quite pleased," he said, handing the dustpan back to her, motioning for her to collect the rubbish as he swept. Tilda bent down to avoid having to look him in the face, "by the sheer enthusiasm surrounding our arrival."

She did not comment. This evening was turning out to be even stranger than she'd anticipated.

"What is your name, Fraulein?"

"Tilda," she said without thought.

"Ah, Mathilda. Ziegler, I presume?"

Her heart stopped cold in her chest. She stood upright very quickly, letting the dustbin slip from her hand. It clattered to the ground, papers and rubbish spilling forth.

"I didn't mean to startle you, Fraulein," he bent as if to help her collect the papers, but his hands never touched any of it. Instead, he watched as her shaking hands scooped the garbage back into the bin. "But you have flour in your hair, and here," he reached out a finger to wipe at her cheek, coating the fine black leather in white powder. "Considering the Ziegler Bakery is just there," he pointed, "I deduced that you must be Manfred's girl."

"You…know my father?"

Tilda tried to remain conversational, but she wanted for nothing more than to run.

"Not personally, I'm afraid," he stood, offering her a hand to help her up, as well. He was a very forward man, touching her more this evening than she had been by a man other than father her entire life. "I am the Chief Security Advisor to the Furher. It was my duty to investigate the shops surrounding the Heldenplatz, should any…disturbances arise."

His smile was disconcerting.

"Thank you for your help," she quickly changed the subject, "I must be going."

"Oh, just one more thing, Fraulein Ziegler, _s'il vous plaît_."

Tilda stopped and turned, eyes wide.

"Give my regards to your father," he winked.

With a nod, Tilda turned and fled.


	2. Chapter 2

She pummeled the dough, turning it over and over, laying her fists into it. Sometimes she imagined the benign beige substance was the face of an enemy, such as Silvia Plotz, the girl at school who used to call her "Mouse." While it was true that Tilda had been very quiet and plain at school, that was no reason for Silvia to tease her so mercilessly.

"Oh if it isn't little Miss Mouse," Silvia would say, sidling up to her in the hallway as though they were good chums on their way to class together. "I brought you some cheese, Miss Mouse!"

The other girls would snicker, tossing their long blond hair and laughing behind perfect white hands. Her own hands were calloused from bread making, burnt more times than she could count.

While the other girls of her class had gone off to marry, or some even to college, Tilda had opted to learn her father's craft. She had worked in the bakery since she was tall enough to see over the countertop, and she hoped one day to take over the family business.

The only part of running a shop that she didn't care for was talking to the patrons. Her father was a friendly, cheerful man with a knack for conversing with customers. They'd discuss everything under the sun, many topics that polite people were not to broach, but her father's favorite subject was always politics. He'd tried, from the first day she set foot in the bakery, to get Tilda to at least talk to the customers, whether about politics or just to ask how they took their coffee.

"Our bread is good," he always said, "but they don't come here for the bread alone. They come to hear the gossip. To drink coffee and converse. We must make this place a village in the center of the city."

When the Germans first began to threaten Austria, her father was one of the first to know about it. He'd tried to warn the ones he trusted to get out while they could, but he'd been laughed at and shushed. Tilda knew this had hurt him, but he was a man who believed in personal freedoms.

"If they're too stupid to see the fire under their feet, then God help them," he'd said.

Tilda floured the marble, slapping the dough down and repeating the kneading process. Her thoughts always drifted when she made bread.

"Mathilda," her father called from the front of the store.

Her stomach dropped. She didn't enjoy the crowds that formed in the bakery, talking so seriously about the current political climate. It always made her feel guilty, scared that someone would come breaking down the door and arresting all of her customers…and her father.

Rinsing her hands, Tilda ventured timidly through the swinging wooden door, and was pleasantly surprised to find the shop mostly empty, save for their regular elderly patron, Maury. The old man was perfectly content to nibble on a ginger snap and drink his coffee, nodding to Tilda once in greeting. She smiled shyly and nodded in return.

"The store is quiet this afternoon," her father said, "Everyone must be seeing the Fuehrer off on his journey." He shook his head with barely contained contempt, "You can handle things until I return?"

"Where are you going," she asked. Her father encouraged curiosity. He said it was the foundation of any worthwhile education.

"Sil fudged the sugar order again," he laughed. "The drunk thinks he can get away with it. Every time," his smile faded slightly when he noticed his daughter's apprehension. "I won't be gone long, Mathilda. You'll be safe here. Those Nazis are pests, but they won't bother you for much, other than perhaps a cruller or two."

He winked, reminding her of the strange Nazi Colonel she'd met the night before. Tilda managed to suppress a shudder. She hadn't mentioned the encounter to her father, but she wasn't sure exactly why. Perhaps it was because of the way the Colonel had known so much about them without having said more than two whole sentences to him. It was chilling. She couldn't risk her father's peace of mind, not when he was involved in heated, and sometimes dangerous, political debates on a regular basis.

"You'll be alright, Mathilda," her father handed over his apron, forever coated in flour.

"Yes Papa," she said, happy to have his trust.

She set about cleaning the countertops and refilling the glass-front with warm pastries and fresh bread for their evening crowd. After work, patrons enjoyed stopping in to pick up a few sweets for their families on the way home. Recently, money had been tight for their regulars, but she was certain that business would pick up again.

Not long after her father's departure, she heard the tinkling of the bell over the door, signaling the arrival of a patron. She sighed and rinsed her hands, turning to the counter.

Her blood ran cold.

"Guten tag, Fraulein Ziegler!"

He hailed her with such familiarity, Tilda thought she might be sick.

"Stand…_Standartenführer_," her mouth was so dry she could barely speak.

The Colonel stood in the doorway to her shop, deeply inhaling the scents of fresh wares.

"Now, I knew I came here for a good reason. Other than to enjoy your company, of course," he said with a lopsided grin. The Colonel strode forward, his big leather boots echoing hollowly through the room. He was clad head to toe in leather and uniform. She attempted to swallow her fear. "Herr Ziegler is not here, Fraulein," he asked as though he already knew the answer.

Tilda backed away slightly as he slid onto one of the little stools, flopping his rather menacing looking hat – emblazoned with skull and crossbones - on the countertop, "No, sir, he is seeing about his sugar order."

"Ah," the Colonel said, though his concentration was fixed completely on the array of delicious goods behind the glass. "What a marvelous display. Tell me about this one," he pointed to a cake. "What's in it?"

Being an Austrian, of course he would recognize Linzerschnitte, but she didn't want to be rude to an officer, "That is one of our best-selling cakes. Would you care…to try a bite, sir?"

The Colonel nodded, a delighted smile on his face. She did not look at him as she took out a knife and gently cut away a tiny piece of the spice cake, placing it onto a fork and holding it out for him to take. He opened his mouth like a little bird, a quirk of amusement sparkling in his eyes. She hesitantly reached out and placed the tines of the fork to his lips. His pink tongue slithered out and lapped up the bite of cake, and he quickly snapped his mouth shut, chewing appreciatively.

"_Délicieux_!" His exclamation startled her, "I couldn't ask for anything sweeter."

His eyes lingered on her face in a way that made her very uncomfortable indeed.

"And that," he pointed to a flaky pastry, "is that strudel I spy?"

"Why, yes," she attempted a smile, "it is my father's specialty."

"Well then I simply must try some," he said.

She nodded, serving up the Colonel a plateful of apple strudel, retrieving a pot of freshly churned cream from the cold box to serve on top. His eyes lit up at the sight.

"You know," he said, taking a heaping spoonful and talking around the food in his mouth, "Your father is very fortunate."

Tilda did not understand, "Oh?"

The Colonel took another bite. While a normal, polite person would wait to speak until they had finished their last mouthful, he seemed to prefer to speak _after_ taking a large bite. His mouth was bursting with cinnamon apples and raisins. She felt sick watching him.

"He has the ability to make such delicious things, while most in his profession can barely scrape up enough flour for a loaf of bread."

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry once more, "Is that so?"

The Colonel nodded, devouring a fourth of the dessert in one spoonful, "Why just down the street, in what might be considered a…less privileged part of town, there are bakers who have had to close up their shops for want of customers."

She shrugged, "My father is one of the best bakers in Vienna," she said without boasting, "We are lucky."

"This strudel is good, to be sure," he said, finishing off the last of it, "but it is no miracle. May I have some milk?"

Tilda could have slapped herself, "Yes, of course. Forgive me, sir."

"Colonel."

"Pardon?"

He sat forward against the counter, his face very close to hers as she bent down to retrieve the milk carafe from the cold box, "Colonel. You will address me as Colonel, not 'sir.' I believe I have earned my title."

He winked at her. He was teasing. She nearly fainted.

The little bell tinkled again, and her eyes whipped toward the door hoping someone, anyone, would bring her salvation. It was only Maury departing, leaving her alone with the Colonel. She forced herself to look at the glass of milk she was pouring to prevent her from spilling it all over the counter.

"_Merci_," he drank the milk in one long swig. "You are good at this, Mathilda. Do you hope to run this shop in the future, should your father experience some untimely misfortune?"

She couldn't determine whether that had been a genuine question…or a threat.

"I do," she tried to smile.

"But you are not much of a conversationalist," he commented, wiping up a missed dollop of cream with his fingertip and wrapping his lips around it. "How could you ever hope to run a store where you had to serve patrons all day?"

She swallowed, "I'm sure I would manage."

He smirked, "I wonder how many young men come in the afternoons looking for something sweet. Maybe older men, too."

"Si-…Colonel?"

He leaned forward, as if imparting some sinister secret, "You've worked here most of your young life. Those are the hands of a baker. And since you can't be much older than twenty, I would surmise that you've been working here nearly half of your life. You've grown up in this shop."

"That…is true," she admitted to him.

The Colonel sat back on the stool and folded his arms, his mind working its terrible magic, "Yes it is. Your father's friends and patrons came here for coffee, and found little Mathilda serving up hot strudel. They watched you grow, 'til you were tall enough even to reach the very top oven door."

He did not stop. His voice was quiet, yet firm in its assuredness, coiling around her like an adder, "And before they knew it, their sons and brothers and cousins were frequenting the shop as well, enjoying your delicacies. Did you notice the men and boys who happened to stop by after school in droves to catch a glimpse of cherubic little Mathilda as she floured her bread? How could you not have noticed their peering glances as they tried to catch you leaning over the marble?"

She didn't want to hear any more. No more.

"And oh their faces! Joy of joys when Mathilda Ziegler would deign to emerge from her sugary palace to serve them. 'That apron fits you so well Mathilda,' they would say, their mouths stuffed with your sweets. Those boys, and yes those men, some as old as, or dare I say older than, your father, all fighting to catch a glimpse of milky skin as you bent to retrieve their favorite sticky treat from the glass cabinet. How they hoped to see that glorious sight, one I was so very blessed to behold only moments ago."

He smiled like a wolf in the sheep's pen.


	3. Chapter 3

Manfred Ziegler possessed a two-inch retractable blade that no one knew about, not even Mathilda. He kept it in his trouser pockets, concealed under his apron, in the event of emergencies. It wasn't that Ziegler didn't believe in guns; he simply did not want people to think he owned any. And thankfully the blade had never known the stain of blood.

Pulling the switchblade from his pocket, he sliced the bottom of the burlap sack. Instead of an avalanche of white sugar, firearms spilled forth in a black metal torrent. There were handguns small enough to fit into any lady's handbag and bulkier pistols with long barrels.

"That's all?"

Sil shrugged sloppily. He might have been a chronic drunk, but he was always useful.

"That's all I could fit. Any more and the bags start to lose their shape," he motioned to the other sacks in the back of his truck. They all had rounded bottoms like the one Manfred had just cut open. "You have any idea how hard it was to find _these_?"

"Yeah, yeah," Manfred said, handing over a folded stack of bills to his business partner, "thanks for the sugar, Sil."

They were parked in an alley behind the bakery used for deliveries. The men began to carefully unload the sacks into Manfred's back holding room; he would move them to the safe room later that night. Until then, they appeared as harmless sacks. If anyone were to open one of the bags from the top, they would find nothing but sugar. It was genius; Sil was a maestro at smuggling illegal goods.

"When can you get more," Manfred asked after the last sack had been unloaded, twelve in all.

Sil shrugged and flicked the end of his nose in thought, "It's tough you know Manny. Tough. They're closing borders, setting up blockades and searches. You weren't kidding when you said we should start preparing ourselves."

Manfred nodded solemnly, "Yes, my friend. But with your help, I won't let my shop or my patrons come to harm. Give word the moment you can get me another shipment."

They shook hands. For a slovenly drunk, Sil really was one of the last men he could actually trust in this crazy world.

Sil's truck puttered away, and Manfred locked the alley entrance before making for the bakery through the side door. What he saw from the doorway was a very unsettling sight, to be sure.

His dearest Mathilda was frozen in fear or shock, her fingers gripped so tightly against the glass countertop he was afraid it might shatter. Her large eyes were wide, mouth slightly agape.

Sitting directly across from her on one of their few counter stools was a man. But not just any man. It was a Schutz-Staffel officer, and he looked to be of very high rank. Though politically informed, Manfred was no military man. However, he had made it a priority to learn about Hitler's personally chosen army. This SS officer definitely fit that creed: blonde haired and oily as a tonic salesman. He was currently smiling at Mathilda, revealing all of his teeth as if to take a bite out of her. Manfred didn't like it, not at all.

"Hello," Manfred said, ducking into the shop as if just stepping in from the street.

The Nazi officer turned quickly in his direction, not allowing his smile to fade. He stood to greet Manfred, ignoring Mathilda completely. Good.

"Guten tag, Herr Ziegler," he was an overly enthusiastic man, but his eyes were stony. Manfred could see why Mathilda was so unnerved by him.

"_Standartenführer_."

They shook hands, "Herr Ziegler, I'm surprised. Your charming daughter was utterly oblivious to my rank, and here you know me by uniform alone."

"Forgive Mathilda," Manfred nodded to his daughter, who stared back at the both of them in dawning terror, "She is simply not used to meeting officers."

"She doesn't seem used to meeting most people," the Colonel laughed. He was a boisterous man, almost obnoxiously so, "But she will get used to me soon enough. Your strudel is excellent, Herr Ziegler."

Manfred nodded his thanks, "Mathilda is a great help in the kitchen."

The men looked at each other briefly. The Colonel appeared to have something else he wanted to say, but thought better of it, "Well. Much as I have enjoyed chatting, I have to get back to work. So much to do, you know."

He plucked up his hat, and with a wink to Mathilda – one that did not go unnoticed by her father – the Colonel was out the front door, sending the bell tinkling with his exit.

"Oh Papa," Tilda sobbed, "thank you for coming back." She sank to the floor, her back to the wall.

Manfred rushed to her side, "Mathilda, what is it?"

His daughter looked up at him, face white, "He was horrible. He said…terrible…unspeakable things to me."

He felt his hands clenching into fists, his voice coming in a low growl, "What did he say?"

"I…I can't," she turned her face away, wiping at her tears with the back of her sleeve.

Manfred had never seen his daughter so upset. This Nazi Colonel was bad news, but there wasn't much they could do about it. At least, not yet.

"Come," he patted her shoulder, making up his mind, "I have something I need to show you."

He helped her up off of the floor and led her to the back room. Manfred had not planned on showing her the munitions. He wasn't even going to show her the safe room he had made out of one of the hidden storage pantries. And yet after today, he thought she needed the comfort of knowing her father was doing something about these vermin.

"Here," he pointed to the sacks.

Mathilda wiped her eyes again, "The sugar order?"

He nodded, retrieving the switchblade from his trouser pocket. Her eyes widened as he snapped the blade open, "Cut them open."

She carefully took the knife and sliced the burlap, revealing nothing but pure white sugar.

"Now that one," he pointed to another sack that had fallen on its side.

Gripping the bottom corner, she made a clean slice. A small cry escaped her lips, "Papa! What are you…why do you have…"

He smiled warmly, "My darling Mathilda, these gun are only the first step. If you want these Nazis gone, if you want that terrible Colonel gone, you have to trust me."

His brave daughter smiled slightly and nodded, "I will help you."


	4. Chapter 4

The changes began immediately.

No longer a student, and with no friends to speak of, Tilda rarely left the bakery if she could help it. Occasionally her father would prematurely run out of eggs, and she would be sent down the street to Herr Muntz's general for a carton. Even on those short outings, she could see the changes taking effect.

Herr Muntz was a businessman who had originally set up shop selling watches. But the town already had a watchmaker. Considering Herr Muntz was the lesser at the craft, he converted his shop into a general store, with which he had far more luck.

One late-spring afternoon, however, Tilda arrived to the store only to find it boarded up, deserted. Her mouth became dry, throat constricting painfully at the thought that this harmless old man had lost his store simply for being Jewish.

"Fraulein," a member of the Gestapo barked at her, "Get away from there. It is no longer in business."

She paled, her head bowing in compliance, and began to walk away. These last few weeks, Tilda had spent time with her father learning what the different soldiers' uniforms meant, what function each faction performed. Her father even taught her what each medal on Colonel Landa's jacket meant.

He said the only way to defeat an enemy was to know everything about them. The medals themselves weren't as disquieting as the fact that her father could recognize them. She did not ask how or where he was acquiring this knowledge; the truth was that she simply did not wish to know.

"Now Herrman, that is no way to speak to a lady."

She heard his boots on the sidewalk behind her, but she did not turn around. It was _him_. She hadn't seen nor heard from the Colonel in weeks. Tilda assumed he was occupied with some despicable business that she had no interest in. Each day the Colonel did not come into the bakery was a blessing.

"Why Fraulein Ziegler," he stepped in front of her, preventing Tilda from going any further. "You're looking well. Free from the toil of breadmaking for a few hours?"

She spied the mark of the Blood Order: solid silver, stamped with the Nazi eagle, dangling on a red ribbon.

"Colonel," she managed to address him with a slight nod. Her eyes strayed to the medal once more.

Landa straightened. He was not a tall man, but she noticed that he pulled his shoulders back to give himself the illusion of height. Interesting.

"Fraulein, please forgive…Herrman for his rudeness. He has been saddled with keeping watch over the storefront until Herr Muntz can be charged."

Tilda furrowed her brow, "Charged, _Standartenführer_?"

"Let's take a stroll, shall we?"

He offered his arm. She hesitated.

There was a moment where, with the Colonel staring at her, Tilda considered running. She could have run back to the bakery, begged her father to lock her away in the safe room and never let her out. But something in Tilda told her that she would not be helping anyone with such cowardice. If Herr Muntz ever hoped to be saved, he needed her to be brave, walk with the Colonel, and learn as much as she could. So, she timidly reached out and hooked her arm through his.

"You have not asked me to apologize," he said, arm gripping her like a vice. They weren't walking at all.

"Whatever for," she feigned ignorance. If she pretended to be like Silvia Plotz, her nemesis from school, he might just believe she was stupid.

"Surely you have not forgotten my comments, Fraulein," he said. He was baiting her.

"Oh," she smiled. Perhaps in another life she could have been an actress, "I simply thought you'd had one too many schnaps, _Standartenführer_."

The Colonel appeared surprised – and pleased – by her sudden loquaciousness. His crooked smile held, even as his words took another path.

"Not at all. I let my…imagination run away with me. It happens too often for comfort," he chuckled. "But you are a pretty girl, Mathilda. Pretty, but not uncommonly so."

She didn't know whether to be flattered or offended or horrified.

"In France, they have women that would put you, and possibly all of the women in Austria, to shame."

"Oh?"

"Indeed," he said. "Have you been?"

Tilda had never been outside of Vienna.

"No," she admitted.

"Pity," he said. "So, now that we are chums, you wouldn't mind telling me why you are in a prohibited area, hmm?"

"Pardon?"

Still they did not walk, "This business has been confiscated by the Gestapo. If I'm not mistaken, you were here to purchase something, perhaps for your father?"

Tilda nodded, not sure where he was headed with his questions.

"Does your father often engage in illicit commerce with Jewish businessmen?"

"My father is simply a businessman himself, Herr Colonel. He deals with those who offer the fairest price."

"Now that," he said, and they began to walk, "Is an excellent answer. I wonder where he acquires his provisions now that the blockades are in place?"

Tilda thought for only a moment, "His regular delivery man is still working, Herr Colonel."

"And what is his name?"

"Forgive me, but I only know him as Sil," she smiled.

The Colonel turned, one eyebrow raised, "If you're referring to Silvan Gerste, he was picked up two days ago on the German border with six cases of illegal ammunition. But you wouldn't know anything about that?"

She could swear her heart stopped beating just then, "No, of course not."

"I would advise your father to seek out more trustworthy business partners in the future, but it's of no matter now."

They were nearing the bakery but at a pace so slow old Frau Gottelieb could have easily passed them by, and she walked with a cane.

"Colonel?"

He changed the subject. He seemed to do that a lot; just when he revealed some particularly important or noteworthy piece of information, he would flit on to the next topic, "I couldn't help but notice, Mathilda, that you are quite fond of my medals, and this one in particular."

She followed his finger as it pointed to the red ribbon of the Blood Order pendant.

"This, Mathilda, is the newest in my collection, but I don't need to tell you that. Tell me, what do you know of this medal? And please, don't do me the disservice of lying. You're much more informed than you let on, I think."

Her blood was chilled. She shivered and she was sure he could feel the tremor running through her arms.

"I could be mistaken," she choked out, "But that is the mark of the Blood Order. There were…there were only 1500 issued before this May."

He smiled, "Wunderbar! You are correct. I received mine quite recently. Tell me, why would I have one of these beautiful trinkets?"

"I'm not sure, Colonel."

"It is because I have been imprisoned for my service to the Reich, but that was many years ago," he said with a smile, as if being thrown in jail was something to be _proud_ of. "I can't help but wonder, Fraulein," he continued in that solicitous way he had, "How you could possibly have any knowledge of this award when just last week you couldn't tell a Colonel from a candlemaker."

"I…My father was very embarrassed by my ignorance, _Standartenführer. _He has made it a personal mission to educate me."

"Is that so," he mused. They had finally reached Ziegler Bakery, though he still held her arm captive. "Your father is a smart man."

"The smartest I know," she said.

"Hmm," The Colonel did not let her go. Instead, he gripped her wrist and pulled her close, placing a kiss to one cheek, and then to the other, lips lingering far longer than necessary just at her jawline "Auf wiedersehen, Fraulein. I should like to visit you again so that you may show me more of your…sweets."

He smiled, tipped his hat, and stalked away. For the first time in a long while Tilda stood a little taller and felt a little braver, despite the shaking in her knees.


	5. Chapter 5

He stood on the balcony of the Hotel Metropole, an unlit cigarette dangling between his fingers. A cacophony of screams resounded from inside the double doors, interrupting his fine view of beloved Vienna.

Hans Landa found torture to be barbaric and counter-productive. The most information came from perfectly rational, unharmed volunteers. He found the best method for extracting what he wanted was simply to talk to a person. Prey upon their fears and weaknesses. Brute force was usually unnecessary in his profession.

However, this particular man, Silvan Gerste, was not what he would consider a "talker." Gerste's jowls were shut tighter than his Aunt Edna's penny purse.

The screaming stopped for a moment, and Landa took it as his cue to return for another round of questioning. When he opened the doors, a sickening smell of charred flesh invaded his nostrils. He found it extremely distasteful.

The recruit ordered to carry out the traitor's punishment was a handsome blonde youth, not much older than twenty. His handy work was crude, but effective. The moment Landa entered the room, Herr Gerste was blubbering like a boy at school.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please! I'll talk, please Inspector…please! I'll say anything!"

"I hardly want you to say just anything, Herr Gerste. But please, a moment. You," he turned to the young soldier, "What is your name?"

"Fritz Krause, _Standartenführer_," he said crisply with a salute.

"Private Fritz, you have a stomach for this type of…work?"

The young man did not flinch. It was obvious that he took pride in his work, gruesome though it was, "Yes, _Standartenführer_."

"That's a good boy. Now, Herr Gerste, I see you're ready to tell me of your exploits?"

The large, sweating man nodded, unkempt hair flopping down over his forehead. His eyes were tearful, full cheeks red with anguish. His torture had been long and painful, to be sure; Landa was thankful he was not part of it.

"Tell me about the weapons."

The fat Austrian spilled the information like an overstuffed sausage, "I transported six trucks of untraced and stolen…stolen guns…" he huffed, trying to catch his breath. "Took them from Germans and placed them…in Austrian hands."

"I appreciate your honesty, but we're already aware of that. This is why you're here. We need names, Herr Gerste. Names, please, or Private Fritz will be back at you with his little candle."

Gerste's eyes widened, bulging from their sockets at the prospect of another round with the young soldier, "No, please! Please. I have names. I have six names."

"I am only interested in one," Landa said, studying the fat man's frightened face, "Did you supply Manfred Ziegler with a shipment of these stolen weapons?"

His mouth was a straight line, but his right hand shook with anticipation; Gerste would not give away the name of one of his oldest friends.

"I will make this simple for you, Herr Gerste. Tell me that Manfred Ziegler is staging a resistance movement with the aid of your stolen munitions, and I will prevent Private Fritz here from doing to your right hand what he has done to your now quite useless left. All you have to do is say the word."

This man was not quite what he'd expected upon first impression; a slovenly thief, yes. But this man was also turning out to be far more loyal to Ziegler than he could have ever imagined. It was inconvenient.

"Private Fritz, if you would be so kind," Landa motioned the youth forward. The young soldier knelt in front of Silvan Gerste, who was tied head-to-toe to a wooden chair, hands strapped to metal posts that forced his fingers to extend. The Private held an open-flamed lantern directly under Gerste's unscathed right hand, and the fat man quivered in terror. His left hand had already succumbed to Private Fritz's terrible flame. The flesh was blackened beyond recognition, splitting open to reveal the cooked meat within. Landa did not care to study it to any great length.

"Please no, please spare my hand…" Fritz turned up the flame, until the metal rod began to heat and turn red. "Please! Oh God, I'll tell you. I'll tell you what you want to know."

Landa motioned for Fritz to remove his lantern. The metal was still red hot, singing the white flesh of Gerste's right hand until it sizzled. The smell was stomach turning, yet apparently necessary.

"Manfred Ziegler has sixty guns! Small ones, pocket sized, but enough to stage…something. That's all I know, please stop this!"

"Are you sure that's all, Herr Gerste? You know of no immediate plots on the Gestapo?"

"No. No," he shook his head, tears streaming down his thick face. Landa, for once, believed him.

"That's enough Private Fritz, thank you."

The young man grabbed a nearby pail of water, dumping it into the heated rod. It hissed and steamed, but at least Gerste's hand was salvageable.

"And thank you, Herr Gerste, for your assistance in this matter. I will see to it that a physician is made available to you before your incarceration."

Gerste's nodded, silently weeping his thanks.

"Private Fritz, a word, _s'il vous plait_."

They ducked out onto the balcony and the cool night air hit his face. He hadn't realized how poorly the air had felt in that room.

"I am impressed," Landa said, taking the lantern from the young man's hand and lighting a fresh cigarette, before handing the unusual implement back to the soldier. He tugged at the collar of his jacket, "You show a surprising level of commitment to your craft."

Private Fritz smiled, "Thank you, _Standartenführer_. I try to do my best in every endeavor."

"Mmm," he took a drag, puffing the smoke out over the quiet city. "I might have a little…task for you in the near future."

The young man smiled, revealing a row of dazzlingly straight, white teeth. Yes, quite handsome indeed.

"Anything, _Standartenführer. _I would be honored. I am at your command."

Landa waved the young man away with a nod. He needed time to think.

At seven o'clock the following evening, after the close of business and an hour prior to the citywide curfew, Colonel Landa and two of his best men rapped on the front door of Ziegler's Bakery. Manfred seemed surprised at first to see him, but he let them in with a courteous nod.

"_Standartenführer, _to what do we owe this visit?"

"Merely a routine inspection of the block. We waited until you were closed, of course, so as not to frighten away all of your customers," Landa smiled and removed his hat and coat, hanging them on the coat rack just to the right. "How lucky that you were the first on the block, hmm?"

Manfred removed his glasses, wiping them on his apron. He was an older man, perhaps fifty, with no hair left atop his very shiny head. But the baker appeared tall and strong, capable of just about anything, if pressed.

"I have here," Landa produced a signed document, "An order to search these premises. If you would be so kind as to give me a tour?"

He heard the sound of metal clattering to the floor from somewhere in the back. Ahh, Mathilda, the clumsy little mouse was there after all. He strained to hear more, but there was nothing but silence.

"Surely, Herr Colonel, right this way."

They walked through the front room, one he had seen more than a few times during his afternoon pastry procurements. There was also nothing of interest behind the counter, save for a long serrated blade no doubt used to slice loaves.

"This is where we bake the bread," he led them through the kitchen, "And over here is the pastry shop. Care to look through the knife drawers, Herr Colonel?"

There was a quirk of something like amusement in the baker's eye, "No, that won't be necessary. You've been quite kind to let us look this far. You wouldn't mind showing us where you make deliveries, Herr Ziegler?"

"Not at all. Just through here."

Ziegler led the way. Landa's two men went in through a small dark doorway after him, but the Colonel stayed behind. He'd noticed a fine white trail of sugar leading across the floor and into a back room, occasionally broken by what looked like intentional swipes by a small shoe. Someone was trying to cover their tracks. He followed it.

The broken sugar trail led to a bookcase. Odd to have a bookcase in a bakery. There were one or two cookbooks on the shelves, but the rest were empty and coated in dust and flour. He did, however, notice quite a few fingerprints on the second shelf. Putting his shoulder against the edge and gripping the shelf, he was able to silently push the rather light bookcase away, revealing a hidden door.

"Ahh," he said, pushing open the door, revealing a sparsely lit room within.

Inside the room was what appeared to be stock. Large bags of sugar, flour, and grain lined one side of the room. The shelves were packed with cans and jars of preserves and jams. And in the corner, clad in a plain dress, shoes, and stockings, hiding her face and cowering in fear, was little Mathilda Zielger.

"Why, Mathilda my dear, whatever are you doing over there?"

"I…I'm sorry, Herr Colonel. You startled me."

He closed the door behind him, "I am very sorry for that. Just inspecting the premises. Can you tell me, why in the world is your father's storeroom located behind a bookcase of all things?"

She shrugged, and crossed her arms, "Since the Anschluss, he's been wary. He doesn't want to lose his stock should there be…looting."

The girl was a decent liar, but only barely. She couldn't look him in the eye. There had to be something more to this room.

"Why are you hiding back here," he asked, picking through one of the shelves while she stood rooted in place, "Your father must have pushed the bookcase in front of the door. Unless," he looked around, "There's another secret entrance?"

Mathilda licked her pink lips. She had a very pretty, almost angelic, face. Pity she was forever covered in flour, "I suppose he fears for my safety. You are here after hours…"

The girl trailed off as he moved slightly closer. The room was lit with a single bare bulb, and she was half-covered in shadow. He must have struck an imposing figure in his uniform in the near dark.

"I see," they were very close now. She obviously hadn't realized he'd been moving ever closer as they spoke, so intent had she been on talking to the tops of her shoes. "What can you tell me then, Mathilda, of this?"

He reached down next to her and gripped a corner of one of the inconspicuous burlap sugar bags. The trail of sugar he'd followed from the bakery proper led right to this sack, and yet for as much sugar as the bag had lost, it looked to be positively bursting.

"Extra…sugar…" she stuttered, her face very close to his. He could have leaned down and taken her sweet mouth in his, yet instead, he rattled the bag. Her beautiful brown eyes widened.

"Mathilda. Please. Sugar? Does sugar make that sound?"

He rattled the bag again, but she did not speak.

"You know, my men have been instructed to arrest your father in the delivery alley behind the bakery. He is probably in my car, off to interrogation as we speak. You could ease his suffering if you would just tell me the truth."

She was backed into a corner, shelves on either side. Either she could tell him what he wanted to hear, or face the consequences. He quite liked the idea of showing her the consequences.

"Mathilda, you know what I could do to you right now? Here, where no one can hear you?"

Her shapely body quavered under the thin material, outlined by the overhead light. He could almost smell her fear.

"There, against that wall," he placed a finger to her collarbone and lightly pushed her back against the stones, "Not very romantic, I'm afraid," he chuckled. The girl's bottom lip quivered as she braced herself. Landa retrieved a blade from his breast pocket and flicked it open. It flashed in the bare light.

He bent down and sliced open the bag, top to bottom.

"Isn't that clever," he admired the work of Silvan Gerste. "Sugar on top, the goods on the bottom."

The moment she saw that the guns, and her secret, had been revealed, Mathilda attempted to make a break for it. She tried to run past him, but he grabbed her wrist and spun her around, pulling her back against him.

"Now, now," he said, "Mathilda Ziegler," he quieted her futile struggles, pressing his body firmly against her, "You're under arrest."


	6. Chapter 6

A single unlit bulb swung lightly back and forth like a pendulum, ticking away the moments. She was tied to a bare wooden chair, her dress riding up over her knees and exposing more thigh than she'd ever dared.

There was no clock, no way of telling how long she'd been in that tiny, dark room but her own inherent sense of time. Even that had failed her. She shivered.

After what seemed like hours, the door opened, flooding the room with sickly yellow light. Two shadowy figures obscured her vision.

"Let's shed a little light on the subject, shall we?"

His cheery, unmistakable voice filled her ears, and soon she was blinking against harsh light.

"My dear, you're looking quite pale. I was hoping to introduce my good friend Private Fritz to the fetching Mathilda Ziegler. I suppose you'll have to do," Colonel Landa winked that horrible wink.

A tall young soldier stepped in beside the Colonel. She blinked back tears to get a clearer view of him. Had she been in any other circumstance, she would have found the young man terribly dashing.

"Private Fritz? Meet the baker's daughter, Mathilda Ziegler."

The soldier stared at her stonily, his jaw set as if he were about to do something he sincerely did not want to. Tilda swallowed the lump in her throat.

"Now that we are all acquainted, let's get down to business," Colonel Landa's voice was bright. He flashed that lopsided grin she had come to know, and dread, over the past few weeks.

They stood before her, rigidly tall, proud, obviously in control. She tried her best to look up at them, but each time her eyes met his, she tore her gaze away. She looked anywhere: the floor, the ceiling, the corner, the wall behind him. Anywhere but the Colonel's penetrating eyes.

"Tell me what your father is plotting."

Suddenly the air turned to ice. She felt prickles along her bare arms and legs. Yet she did not speak.

"Oh Mathilda, don't be coy," he mocked her, "She is being a tease I'm afraid, Private Fritz." He turned to the younger man and laughed, "But I have no doubt that she knows every detail of her father's plans."

He began to pace the room, fingers lightly stroking his strong jaw, as if pulling ideas from his very flesh, "Now what to do. What to do."

The Colonel snapped his fingers. An idea. He ducked out of the room, and the next thing she knew she was blinking against a blinding flash and a _crack_. Another. And another. He was taking photographs.

"Smile, my dear," he coaxed. The smell of something burning filled the room. She tried to keep from screaming. Colonel Landa lowered the camera, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "No, I'm afraid that won't do. Simply not dire enough to tempt the snake from his den."

Tilda's tongue felt very dry, "But…"

Their attentions were instantly on her, "Yes, my dear?"

"I thought you said…I thought my father was arrested?"

Landa laughed then, a terrible, loud chortle that made his entire face turn red, "Did I say that? My apologies for having misled you, Fraulein. No, I'm afraid Manfred is still out there, probably frightfully worried for his dear daughter's safety. And that's exactly what we need."

"What do you mean," she managed to choke out the question, though her eyes burned.

"You father is noble man. One who fraternizes with other noble men. Lots of them. If I arrest only your father, no amount of help from the able Private Fritz here will rend the names of his co-conspirators from your father's lips."

Private Fritz stood expressionless. He may as well have been made of granite.

"No, what we need is for him to see that his daughter is in danger," the Colonel said, his eyes taking in every part of her. "Let him smell the blood and he, and all of his compatriots with their little pistols and pitchforks, will be out in full force."

So that was it, then. They were going to slit her throat and hang her out of the window for the birds to pick her clean. A sob escaped her throat, try as she might to hold it in.

"Now don't cry, Mathilda. I need you to cooperate," he crouched before her, tucking a finger under her chin and lifting it so that her eyes met his. "Be a good girl?"

She nodded. What choice did she have?

Private Fritz moved behind her quietly, placing a blindfold over her face. She felt him cutting the ropes, her aching wrists and ankles free and tingling. Two sets of hands lifted her from the chair, shuffling her across the floor.

Tilda tried to track her steps, to estimate how far they were taking her. At one point she thought she could smell fresh bread from somewhere to her right, indicating that perhaps they were in a home or an establishment with a kitchen. Apart from the sounds of German soldiers speaking behind closed doors, she couldn't make out a damned thing.

"In here," Landa informed Private Fritz. They lead her inside a room, closing and locking the door behind them. She smelled fresh linen and cologne. The Colonel's cologne. Before they even removed the blindfold, she knew they were in his private room.

A warm hand closed over hers, gently leading her by the elbow to the edge of a bed.

_Not this_, she thought, her head pounding, _not like this_.

"Be a chum and hand me that rope, Private Fritz," the Colonel instructed. He began to tie her hands in front of her, gentle as a man with a newborn. "Don't cry, Mathilda. This will be over before you know it."

Tugging on the rope, he pulled her down onto her belly on the bed, tying her hands to the headboard like she was some sort of plaything. She felt sick. If she'd had anything to eat in the past day, she might have vomited all over his clean sheets.

The next thing she felt was the cold metal of a blade between her shoulder blades.

"I'm sorry about this," the Colonel said, "I promise to buy you a new dress. A pretty one, satin if you'd like." And he began to slice until there was nothing left of her dress but two useless halves. Her bare back and legs were covered in gooseflesh.

"Now, Private Fritz, if you would be so kind," he called the boy. She felt the bed shift with the soldier's added weight. Her heart seized in her chest, her eyes stung under the blindfold. Her face was hot, yet her body cold as ice.

"Prop her up, please," the Colonel instructed, as though he were teaching a pottery class, "pull her bottom up just a bit more. Closer to you. Yes, that will do. Your shirt, please, Private Fritz."

The soldier obediently removed his shirt. She felt him unclasping his trousers. Tilda gritted her teeth, waiting for the moment when he would…

_SNAP_.

The sound of the camera jarred her. Her head reeled back, to the side, trying to gauge where the sound was coming from. The smell of burning filled the air.

_SNAP. SNAP. _

"Hmm," the Colonel was just in front of her, perhaps kneeling down on the floor, his sweet, warm breath on her face. "This isn't quite right…ah yes."

She immediately felt a weight on her head. A heavy cap settled down onto her, and she knew then that it was his hat, bearing the skull and bones of the S.S.

"Wunderbar," he snapped another photograph, and she could almost feel him grinning. "No, no, Mathilda. Turn your head this way. Daddy will need to see your beautiful face."


	7. Chapter 7

Goosebumps rippled along the bare flesh of her back, over her shoulders, down her arms. They ended at the raw spots where rope rubbed against her wrists. Had the air been this cool before? She couldn't recall. All she remembered was the stifling heat of the young soldier's body as he pressed up against her, and the roaring shame that colored her cheeks for hours afterward.

Tilda was still blindfolded, but at least she was alone. She could almost feel the Colonel's sweet, hot breath in her face as he teased her, the spark of the camera with each photo. The way the young man's bony hips ground against her. And yet she was still intact, and, for the most part, uninjured.

If she ever got out of that room alive, Tilda vowed to start attending church.

Colonel Landa's scent clung to the bed. She tired of being facedown in him. Trying her best not to whimper, Tilda managed to turn over onto her back. Scraps that once belonged to her dress shielded her modest breasts from the cool air, but her arms were still tied uncomfortably above her head. She was beginning to think they would leave her in there until she perished when the door opened, then closed softly.

"Hmm."

She could almost see the satisfied smirk on his face, the way his jaw tilted slightly to the right. Her whole body went rigid.

"Aren't you a sight, Mathilda," the Colonel 's big boots thumped across the floor toward her. He was shuffling papers. "But you do take nice pictures."

The photographs. He'd been off having them developed, but to what end? She didn't really want to know.

"Some of these are quite fetching, you know. Like this one," he brushed the corner of a photograph against her cheek. "I'm sure Daddy Ziegler will be very proud."

Tilda shuddered. Tears began to form behind her eyes. Thankfully she still had the blindfold so he couldn't see them.

"Please," she whispered.

"You know, I think I'll put this one on the top. He'll get a nice view," his voice grew icier.

"What do you want," she sobbed, unable to control herself any longer.

"Why my dear, I want to see you squirm," she could hear the grin in his voice.

Colonel Landa tossed the stack of photographs onto the bed, standing silently just before her. He stood there for what felt like a very long time. Studying her. She felt him watching, felt the heat of his leg nearly touching her thigh.

"You father is a traitor," he said finally. "I thought you had more sense than that."

He was speaking, of course, of her involvement with her father's plans. She didn't know much, but the Colonel could tell that she knew something. And that was enough for him.

"You've got one chance," he said, a hint of something like compassion in his smooth voice, "Tell me who is involved in his little plot, and I will let you go. I'll burn the photographs. But you must tell me now."

He was kneeling down next to her. His lips and chin tickled her ear as he spoke.

For once in her pathetic life she actually felt brave.

"No."

"Ahh," he snapped upright, "that's too bad."

The Colonel snatched up the stack of photographs, stalked to the door and was gone. She could hear him yelling down the hall, "Take these. Deliver them immediately to Manfred Zielger at Ziegler's Bakery on the plaza."

Her stomach dropped. So that was it. The last her father would see of her would be as a half-naked Nazi plaything. At least, despite the terrible photographs, she knew she hadn't shamed him by telling his secrets. It was cold comfort.

He returned perhaps an hour later, this time smelling of a meal. Her stomach growled. She'd been in his possession nearly two days, she estimated, and in that time she'd only had a bit of water.

"I would offer to bring you something to eat, but I'm afraid you have given up that privilege."

If she could have laughed, she would have.

"Take some water," he said. Tilda nodded, picking her head up off the mattress, and attempted to sip at a proffered glass. It was not water at all, but Vodka. She sputtered.

"Oh dear," he said, wiping at her face with a soft cloth, "some girls simply can't handle their spirits."

She wondered why he was playing with her so, why he didn't just pull out his pistol and put a bullet into her. It would save them both a lot of time and effort.

"Mathilda," he said, his voice suddenly very dark, "I don't blame you for keeping your father's secrets. But," he bent low to her, again brushing her skin with his soft lips, "You're playing a very dangerous game."

"I've nothing to say to you," she said calmly, her voice very dry but firm.

"I see," he breathed, the puffs traveled down her neck and across her collarbone, as if he was looking her over very closely. "Nervous?"

She pretended that she was not. Suddenly, she felt a very sharp tweak as the Colonel took one of her nipples between his fingers and gave it a pinch. Tilda cried out, but not entirely in pain.

"Chilly in here, isn't it," he was smiling again. The man enjoyed playing with his prey, "This could be so easy."

Tilda wasn't certain he was speaking to her at all. He continued quietly.

"You're in my bed, you know," his hands stroked over her ribcage, thumbs running along the sides of her waist. "Though I think I prefer you this way."

With a quick move, he'd turned her over, her face shoved into his clean sheets. She was engulfed, once again, by the smell of him: masculine, tobacco and leather and cologne. Tilda was terrified, yet oddly something else churned in the place below her stomach…

"All of those men in the shop wish they could see what I'm seeing, you know," he deeply inhaled along her spine. She half expected to feel his tongue slithering over her flesh. Instead, he ran a finger along her bare back, watching her shiver.

As he pressed against her, she felt the horrifying sensation of his arousal. Unlike Private Fritz, who had been as hard as the insides of an oyster, Colonel Landa was especially excited by the sight of his prey helpless and blindfolded before him.

"If I didn't know better, Mathilda, I'd say that you were enjoying this," he teased. Hooking two fingers into her panties, he pulled them down over her hips. She heard him fumbling with his belt, and then felt the strange, alien sensation of his manhood against her backside. He trailed it up and down against her, as if deep in thought.

"I could. So easily. So deliciously easy. I'm sure you taste very sweet, Mathilda."

She held her breath.

"But no."

He quickly replaced himself back into his pants, zipped himself up, buckled his belt, and was out the door before she knew what to think.


End file.
